


Mortality's Curse

by Rookblonkorules



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Child Death, Gen, Grief, Infant Death, Mortal/Immortal Relationship, Stillbirth, Tragedy, contemplating mortality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:41:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25871530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rookblonkorules/pseuds/Rookblonkorules
Summary: Caranthir understands for the first time what joining himself to a mortal means.
Relationships: Caranthir | Morifinwë/Haleth of the Haladin
Comments: 19
Kudos: 60





	Mortality's Curse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aemileth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aemileth/gifts).



> So... this might be the darkest thing I've ever written. This deals with infant death, so... please be warned.  
> I wrote this last year during my college math class each week. I finally decided it was time to type it out and post.

His wife’s screams have stopped and the silence that follows is sickening.

Caranthir takes a hasty step forward. He wants more than anything to go to her, to be by her side where he belongs. 

He quells his instincts- he is also someone who has lived through the birth of three younger brothers and he knows that the healers need their space in order to work. 

The curtain is pushed back and a woman shows her face. She exhibits signs of age- so foreign to Caranthir and his elven brethren- greying hair and wrinkled flesh- yet her eyes are still hard and lively.

She displays not the usual emotions he beholds when finding himself regarded by mortals- a mixture of fear, uncertainty and awe that he is still so unused to yet finds not entirely unpleasant. 

The woman observes him solemnly and Caranthir feels fear build in his throat, threatening to choke him. 

His own grandmother died in childbirth and mortals are far more fragile than elves…

With a motion, the woman dispels this fear and replaces it with another. 

“Go to her,” she says and there is something so world-weary and heartsick in her voice. “She will need you now.”

Without a word, he passes her, pushing back the heavy curtain.

The female attendants fade to a backdrop immediately.

Haleth is sweat-soaked, damp, yellow hair matted against her neck and forehead. Her eyes, filled with exhaustion and untold pain, rise to meet his own, and Caranthir notices her tears mingling with the wetness of her sweat.

The sense of wrongness which has vibrated throughout his entire being finally finds its source.

It is silent.

No child’s cries have risen to replace the screams of his wife. 

He remembers the births of his brothers.

Babies cry.

It shouldn’t be so quiet.

He’s at her side almost immediately, crouched at the side of her bed. He clutches her small, clammy hands with his own.

“Where…” he whispers. The words feel thick around his tongue. He looks desperately from his still stricken wife to one of the women. “Our child…”

“Caranthir…” Haleth pulls one of her hands from his grasp and rests it against his cheek. Her calloused fingers are so cold against his warm flesh. Fresh tears glisten on her cheeks.

“No.” He pushes her hand away only to quickly clutch it back to himself, just as desperate to receive comfort from her as he is to give it. “No.” His voice is choked, heavy with the weight of his grief. 

“Caranthir,” she whispers. Her eyes are brimming with tears as she pleads with him. “It’s our mortality. We are fragile.” There’s a crack in her voice that suggests she’s one step away from falling apart and struggling hard to keep herself strong.

She shouldn’t have to. 

He leans forward, crushing her against his chest. 

Her fingers reach up, twining so tightly in his garments that her knuckles whiten. She lets out a breathless sob, shoulders trembling.

Caranthir has seen her in battle, sword stained black with the blood of orcs as she drives them fiercely from her, battle-cry on her lips.

He has seen her brought back wounded and bloody, dragging herself from the brink of death.

He has seen her after the death of her family, face pale and grim as she held a silent vigil at their graves.

Never before has he seen her tears. 

_ “It’s our mortality. We are fragile.” _

_ Mortality. _

He holds her tighter, baring his teeth protectively as if he can chase mortality’s curse away by force of will alone. 

A soft whimper from his wife lets him know that he is hurting her and, horrified, he releases his grip.

“I am sorry,” he stammers. “I…”

Her fingers wrap around his wrist and hold tight. Her eyes seek his out in earnest. 

“Caranthir,” she says. “Please.”

“I won’t let death take you,” he says harshly. Even as he says this, he understands the arrogance and futility of such a statement. What can he do to stop death, death that took both his father and his grandfather, both of whom walked among the deathless?

At least he is wise enough not to swear it. “It cannot.”

“Don’t say such things.” Her fingers brush across his lips, silencing him. “There is nothing you can do.”

No… she cannot understand his anguish. That of living on- of being unable to share in her fate even should he himself die. 

She pushes herself upright, clutching his hands in hers.

A hand touches his shoulder and he whips around, ready to defend. 

A snarl is already half-formed on his lips, dying when he sees who it is.

One of Haleth’s attendants, braver than the others, has stepped forward. 

“My lord,” she says. Her face manages to somehow remain grim and yet uncertain at the same time. “You are only upsetting her. You cannot…”

“I want to see it,” Caranthir interrupts. His voice is tight with barely suppressed grief. “My child.” His throat closes and he chokes on his next breath. “Show me.”

Haleth stiffens in his arms. “Caranthir.” She grips his forearm. “It will only hurt you to see her.”

_ Her. _

Their child.

Their  _ daughter. _

Their child had been a girl.

He presses the back of his hand against his lips as a choked sob works its way from his throat. 

“Let me see her,” he repeats. He needs to see his daughter, needs to see some tangible evidence that she existed, that she was  _ real. _

“My lord.” One of the nursemaids hesitates, shooting an uncertain glance towards Haleth. “Are you… absolutely certain?”

“Do as he says.” There’s something weary in her voice, but it remains hard as steel.

A faint flush coloring her cheeks, the young woman turns to obey without a word. 

“Haleth…” It dawns on him just what he is asking her to put herself through.

“No.” Her cheeks have gone completely bloodless. “She is your child too. You should… you should get this chance to see her.”

It’s an older woman who comes to them, arms cradling a tiny burden already swaddled in the burial cloth.

Her face is lined with age and sympathy as she passes off the little bundle. She speaks no words. Any condolences so soon will only seem trite to the grieving parents.

Haleth accepts their child into her arms.

With shaking hands, Caranthir carefully unfolds the blanket.

The sight that greets him takes his breath away, grief once more threatening to punch a hole through his heart. 

Even in death, the face is exquisite. Tiny, perfect lips. Wisps of dark hair. Small ears with only the slightest hint of a tip. 

Swallowing suddenly becomes much harder.

Haleth turns away, pressing her face into his chest and fingers twisting in his tunic, but Caranthir can’t look away.

The nursemaid carefully covers the little face with the shroud once more. 

He wants to protest, but the words are stuck in his throat.

Caranthir cannot speak.

His throat has closed up. It feels as though he cannot breathe.

His heartbeat stutters in his chest.

Is this his punishment?

For the oath? The silmarils? The  _ kinslaying? _

The Valar’s curse.

He should have known he would never be allowed happiness. 

And now it is not only himself he has dragged down, but his wife as well.

And their daughter. A life that never got the chance to be lived.

_ I’m sorry, _ he thinks.  _ I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. _

“Caranthir.” His wife’s hand cups his cheek, turning his face towards hers. “It will be alright. It will…”

Shoulders shaking, she falls against him once more. 


End file.
